


Ill Fitting Intentions

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, damn those qartheen gowns, gratuitous use of a mirror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell





	Ill Fitting Intentions

“Come now, sweetling,” Petyr says through the oak door that blocks is entrance to _Alayne’s_ room. “It can’t be that bad.”  


A sob echoes through the door, and Petyr barely manages not to roll his eyes. He had not been one for teenage histrionics, even when he was a teenager. He fingers the scar on his chest absently. 

“It’s _horrid_ ,” Sansa-- no _Alayne,_ shrieks. He must remember that she is Alayne now, his daughter, _his_. 

She had sent away her maids when she saw the thing, not wanting anyone to witness the monstrosity of a dress she had been bidden to wear at tonight’s feast.

“It was a lovely shade of blue,” he supplies, but he knows she has the right of it. The dress sent for her by the Royces was terribly hideous-- ruffles, and lace, and beading that didn’t match. Undoubtedly, the Lady Myranda had chosen it, sharp as she was. She wasn’t going to let a beautiful bastard outshine her at the feast.   


Not that it would matter. His Alayne would shine in anything, the same way her mother had. 

He doesn’t bother to correct himself this time. 

“Let me in, Alayne,” he says, commanding, now. She needs someone to take charge, he imagines and is pleased when the door opens, Alayne clutching the gown to her chest.   


The thing is too big by half, and hangs on her like a sack. The ruffles down the front give the impression that she’d been sick all over herself. It looks both matronly and something meant for a child of eight, not a maiden of four-and-ten. 

Myranda Royce was a cleverer woman than he had given her credit for, it would seem. 

“Oh, sweetling,” he says softly, and she cries in earnest then and flings herself, somewhat unexpectedly, into his arms.   


He strokes her hair gently as she cries. 

“It’s not fair,” she wails into his chest. “I have to wear it, else it will insult them, but it’s _awful_. Surely Myranda knows this is terrible,” she sniffles and Petyr envies and curses her naivety.   


“Perhaps she merely looked at the color,” Petyr says lightly, not wanting to upset her further. It’s a strange emotion. 

In his arms, his Alayne doesn’t say anything, and her sobs have quieted some. He takes her by the arms and steadies her, lifting her chin to look into her blue, blue eyes. 

“You’ll still be the most beautiful maiden at the feast, sweetling,” he says, and Alayne looks away.   


“Not in this,” she says, voice wretched again. Then, after a pause, “She’s upset about Harry.”   


Petyr nods, pleased she has sussed out Myranda’s motives.

“Yes. And when we are upset and let emotion rule us, we make our greatest mistakes. Tell me, sweetling, what has our dear Lady Myranda forgotten.”   


Alayne looks at him wide-eyed. The shoulder of the gown has slipped down her arm and he can see the top of her creamy breast. His fingers twitch with the desire to tug the sleeve down a little more and expose that fine breast to him. To take her nipple into his mouth, the way he had done to her mother years, and years ago.

“I--” she starts off, unsure, and he allows himself to take her hand and trace her fingers.   


“My daughter is a gifted seamstress, is she not?” he asks, softly, and gently tugs down the other shoulder of the gown to match the fallen one. 

The effect is marvelous. Her pale shoulders bared to him, he can see the smattering of freckles along her shoulders and the tops of both of her breasts. He stands and circles her, tugging the material of the dress back to tighten around her waist, admiring how it pushes her breasts out further. 

Holding the fabric in one hand, he smooths the skirts over her backside, and hears her sharp intake of breath. He steers her this way toward the full length mirror that used to be Lysa’s. 

“See, sweetling,” he murmurs in her ear, pressed as close to her back as he dares. He enjoys the picture they make, reflected in the mirror. Her blue eyes, so wide and innocent, his hands pressed on her. “Some quick stitching and all will be well.”   


“You don’t-- you don’t think this is too... immodest?” Alayne asks, tracing the low neckline, and in the mirror he can see his hungry eyes tracing his path her slender finger takes along the top of her breasts.   


“Immodest would be a dress in the Qartheen fashion,” he says laughing, and moves the hand at the small of her back to her left breast. “They leave one breast bare in all their gowns.” 

His fingers make quick work to push the material down, to bare her left breast for him. It is just as lovely and full as her mother’s had been, tipped in the same shade of pink. He stops himself from pinching the nipple between his fingers and pressing a kiss to her neck. 

“ _Father,”_ she hisses, scandalized, but he smiles at their reflections in the mirror, noting that she makes no effort to cover herself.   


“It’s true, sweetling. The Qartheen believe in celebrating our bodies, as they were made by the gods. Perhaps we should alter the gown this way, just to see the look on Lady Myranda’s face.” 

His Alayne laughs at that, an act that causes her expose breast to move gently. He cups it then, and Alayne sucks in a deep breath. 

“The Qartheen believe it is good luck to view and touch a beautiful woman’s breast.”   


A lie, he knows. She doesn’t.

“Why?” Alayne asks, but her eyes in the mirror are not suspicious. They are curious, and, he might be imagining it, a little darker with desire.  


“It brings pleasure to both a man and a woman,” he answers, honestly. “Shall I show you, sweetling?”   


Now she does look confused and makes to turn, but he keeps her facing the mirror. 

“No, no. You need to look, to see.”   


He squeezes the breast in his hand gently, and watches, delighted, as a flush blossoms over her face, and neck and chest. 

He rolls the nipple between his fingers then, and hears his Alayne’s breath stutter. 

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes. “ _Father_ , I...” but trails off when he pinches it sharply. 

He keeps up his ministrations, rolling, and pinching until the nub is hard and tight. Alayne keeps up a steady flow of soft moans and sighs.

“It is better when it is both,” he says softly, and tries not to react too much when she pulls down the material covering her other breast herself. 

He cups them both, squeezing them together, watching himself in the mirror. 

Alayne is flushed and panting, and he has no doubt that were he to slide a hand up under her skirts, and press a finger to her center, he would find her wet and wanting. 

The thought makes his cock twitch in his breeches. 

He pinches both nipples at the same time, hard, harder than he has before, and Alayne moans and sags back into his arms. 

“ _Father_ ,” she whispers softly, and she is so flushed and beautiful in the mirror it takes all his self control not to rip the gown off her and bury himself in her cunt.   


“ _Father,”_ she says again, more urgently this time, and she looks terribly embarrassed. “I--- my smallclothes are wet but I didn’t--”   


Alayne looks terribly mortified and she cannot meet his eyes or her own in their reflection. 

Petyr thanks all the gods for the gift in his lap. 

“That is the pleasure the Qartheen talk about, sweetling,” he says gently, and this time he does tug the gown down so that she is bare before the mirror, save the white cotton of her small clothes, where a wet spot is clearly visible, and spreading.  


“When a woman gets wet like this,” and he keeps his left hand on her breast, but brings his rigt down and presses his thumb to the spot and revels in her hiss, “that is when we know she is close to her pleasure.”   


“Close to?” Alayne asks, all innocence, and Petyr bites back a moan.   


“Oh yes. This is just the beginning. Shall I show you?”   


Alayne nods. 

“You’ll need to take off your small clothes.”  


She blushes further but does, and he uses his right hand to tip her face up to look into the mirror. 

“Watch now, Alayne. This is important.”   


With his left hand on her nipple, he brings his right down and uses his index finger to slide up and down her slit. 

Alayne shudders and moans, eyes falling shut, and he gives her nipple another sharp pinch.

“Watch, Alayne,” he says sharply, parting her nether lips with two fingers, enjoying how _pink_  they are in the reflection.   


“Yes, father,” she says breathlessly and leans against him, pushing her breast into his hand. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to feel the press of his hard cock against her. 

There will be time for that later, he decides and presses his thumb agains her clit, while his index finger explores her slit gently. 

“Oh, father, _there_ ,” she keens, and he obliges her, putting more pressure on her clit, rubbing it with her own moisture.   


She comes apart quickly, and when he legs shake he lets her sag against him, still rubbing her clit gently. 

It’s not until she half moans, half cries that he stops. 

There is wetness dripping all down her thighs and the horrid gown is crumpled on the floor beside them. 

Alayne is flushed, and glassy eyed in his arms. She is lovelier than her mother ever had been. 

“Do the Qartheen do that _all_ the time,” Alayne asks, and Petyr had almost forgotten the lie.   


“Before and after every feast,” he says. “For luck.”   


“Then after...?” Alayne asks, eyes meeting his in mirror and Petyr gives her a genuine smile.   


“For luck,” he agrees to her silent question, and presses a kiss to her temple.   


“Will you sew your dress like a Qartheen maiden?” He teases, giving the breast in his hand a squeeze, and his Alayne giggles sweetly.   


“No, father,” she says, and giggles. “That’s our good luck only.” 


End file.
